A Soul's Worth

Chapter Nineteen

Warren’s peace of mind was short-lived. Ben talked
constantly about the missing vagrants in the city, and he kept Warren updated
on the status of his fellow constable—who was still missing, of course, since
his body was likely already devoured by the Llewan and what was left of his
mind now spent its time pouring tea and carrying luggage for Mr. Anderson.
Warren almost wished he could just tell Ben the truth if it would keep him from
having to listen to his constable lover worry and ponder.

One afternoon, as expected, Ben came to the house after his
shift was done, but today he pounded through the front door, and Warren could
hear his shouting voice all the way from the bedroom. He shut the book in his
lap, put out his cigarette, and opened the bedroom door to see Ben storming
through the parlor. Warren followed in a rush while Ben called out again for
Simon.

The twins were in the kitchen searching through the larder
when Ben entered, and before they had time to question his shouting, Ben
snarled out, “Heald.” A spark flew from his brass palm as he reached out his
left hand and pulled the brothers to their knees without touching them. A tin
of biscuits clanged to the floor as Owen lost his grip on it, and both twins
went completely immobile, to the point that Warren couldn’t tell if they were
still breathing.

“This is your doing,” Ben spat at Simon, bending to look him
in the face.

“What’s going on in here?” Warren cut in. “Ben, let them
up.”

Ben looked over his shoulder at Warren with a scowl. “Who
was the man you thought broke into Sir Bennett’s house?” he asked without
pretense, and Warren frowned at him.

“Just an acquaintance,” he said casually. “Someone who met
me at Wakefield’s.”

“Just tell me what you’re getting at, Ben,” he demanded.
“Ask what you want to ask.”

“Apparently Mr. Callaway has taken quite ill very suddenly,”
Ben said grimly. “After some party you both went to, his servant says he
collapsed in his bedroom, and now he’s stuck in his bed, can’t move or speak.
He’s so bad that the police were contacted on suspicion of poisoning.” He
looked into Simon’s motionless eyes with a scowl. “Only one man I know what
could make that ‘appen and takes an interest in your affairs.”

“Ben, no,” Warren insisted, and he stepped between his lover
and the Irishmen. “He’s done no such thing.”

“I warned you about ‘em, Warren,” he growled as he stood,
his good hand clenched to keep the twins in their place.

“He didn’t do it,” Warren repeated, watching Ben’s face’s
warily.

A veil seemed to lift from the constable’s face, and he
shook out his hand and let the brothers drop to the floor in a fit of coughs.
Perhaps they hadn’t been breathing very well after all. Ben snatched Warren by
the arm and pulled him out of the larder, letting the kitchen door swing shut
behind them. He leaned down close to his lover’s face, watching him with a
careful eye. “You tell me now that you didn’t do this, Warren. Tell me that
it’s not blood magic. I could look the other way when it was rabbits an’ such,
but I can’t sit by if you’re ‘urtin’ people. It’s not right. Tell me you
didn’t.”

“Is that what you want to hear?” Warren returned, mildly
surprised at the low calm of his voice. He looked into Ben’s face without fear.
“Do you want to hear that it’s a happy accident for me? Or do you want to hear
that I did what I had to do?”

“Christ almighty,” Ben breathed, pulling away from Warren to
put a helpless hand to his forehead. “You did, didn’t you? Warren, this is too
much. You can’t do this to a person. He’d be better off dead than the way he is
now.”

“So you think I should have killed him?”

“I think you should’ve let him be!” Ben snapped. “Isn’t it
point of you marrying some woman that we’d be safe from rumor! You didn’t have
to do this. You shouldn’t have done it, Warren.”

“Shouldn’t have?” Warren moved to stand just in front of the
constable, his lip curling. “You think I do these things because I want to? You
think I want to marry a woman I barely know, or to make a man bedridden for the
rest of his life? I do these things for you.”

“For me?” Ben asked incredulously, a small laugh escaping
him despite himself. “For me, he says. Warren, you’ve not done a bleedin’ thing
since Sir Bennett died that’s done anythin’ for anyone but you. And a couple of
thugs what’d do more good hung from the gallows than lurkin’ in our house.
Don’t think I don’t know where you would’ve learned magic like that. You’ve
gone blind, love. This ambition of yours—”

“My ambition will keep us safe. My money will keep us fed.
My influence will keep us free. There was no future for us until that day. We
would have crept in the shadows, hiding, until we were caught and thrown in
prison. That can’t happen now; don’t you see?”

“Warren, you have to stop this,” Ben almost begged, putting
his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders and squeezing them tightly. Warren
flinched slightly under the metal grip, and Ben loosened his fingers with a
short sigh. “I’ve agreed to everythin’. I agreed to be a family friend. I
agreed to you marryin’ ‘at woman. I even agreed to those blighters takin’ up
space in our home ‘til who knows when. But I can’t let this by. You can’t see
enemies around every corner. You’ll go mad, and you’ll do ‘orrible things to
people what don’t deserve it.”

“Everything I’ve done has been because it was necessary for
our future,” Warren said. “And I will continue to do it.”

Ben let his hands drop from the other man’s shoulders,
shaking his head as he took a step back from him. “You can’t. Please. I’m
asking you, Warren, for me. What’s...what’s done is done, but you must promise
me that it ends here. I can’t stand by while you cause such things. I can’t.
Promise me that it’s the end of the blood magic. You can’t ‘ope to control
magic like that. It’ll control you.”

Warren sighed, folding his arms over his chest. “There isn’t
any point to doing it again,” he said finally. “I told you what I’ve done would
make us safe. So now it’s done.”

“It’s done,” Ben repeated. “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Warren said with just a touch of exasperation.

“You’re making a lot of promises, Warren,” Ben said, and he
moved close to the other man and slipped a hand through his hair. “Make sure
you keep ‘em, eh?” He lingered a moment before leaving, and Warren was left
alone in the bedroom, swearing to himself as he pushed open the kitchen door to
check on the Travers.

Since Ben had begun to make himself at home at the house in
Belgrave Square, he and Warren hadn’t had as much time together as they
supposed they would. Ben still had to make an occasional appearance at his
small house in Southwark or risk his landlady claiming he had abandoned the
place, so he sometimes spent the night there instead. He also still worked full
time, of course, which kept him away on the Tuesday nights designated for
Warren’s work with the Travers. These factors, plus the occasional party with
Wakefield and others, meant that they spent two or three nights a week on a
quiet evening together.

Ben was clearly agitated when one of their few nights was
interrupted by Elizabeth dropping by to ask for Warren’s signature on this or
that, or his opinion on various shades of blue, or for the addresses of any of
his acquaintances he wished to invite to the wedding. Ben tended to shut
himself in the bedroom until she left, but tonight he sat in a chair across
from Elizabeth with his arms folded tight across his chest, slumping in his
seat and giving the tea tray rather a petulant look.

“I’ve sent invitations to some family friends and business
acquaintances in New York, but I doubt many of them will actually attend on
such short notice,” Elizabeth said, steadfastly ignoring Ben’s grumpy glare in
favor of the pad of paper on her knee. “Wakefield sent his RSVP back
immediately, of course, which was rather irksome. I don’t know why you spend so
much time with him.”

Warren shrugged. “I don’t mind him at all. He’s helped me
quite a bit—what with being ‘new money,’ I need a lot of guidance, you know.
Would you prefer I came to you for advice instead?”

“I can do very well without answering endless questions,
thank you,” she said quickly. She finally glanced up at Ben and gestured to the
tray on the table between them. “More tea, Mr. Cartwright? You look a bit
sullen.”

“You’re about an awful lot for someone who says they don’t
give a damn about how this wedding goes.”

“Ben,” Warren scolded him, but Elizabeth only gave him a
chilly smile.

“You will find, I think, Mr. Cartwright, that I shall be
here rather more often than not before you know it, and I don’t very much like
the idea of living under the same roof as a man who can’t contain his childish
impulse to sulk as soon as I enter the room. I will assure you that I have no
intentions toward dear Mr. Hayward—as I believe you should well know but don’t
mind repeating once or twice—and that my interests are purely mercantile. I
might remind you, further, that it was Warren who first sought out a wife, and
not I a husband. Now may we move past this, or shall we both continue to
pretend that the other is invisible?”

Ben opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He
looked between Warren’s pleading face and Elizabeth’s empty one and sighed. “I
didn’t think a woman existed who was capable of marrying a man she had no
feelings for and never developing any,” he grumbled.

“You are afraid that Warren is so irresistable that, despite
my intentions, I will simply be taken in by his charms and fall head over heels
in love?” A small laugh bubbled out of her, and she quickly covered her mouth
with one gloved hand and cleared her throat. “So sorry, darling,” she said as
an aside to Warren. “I’m afraid that just isn’t the case.”

Warren stared at her with lifted eyebrows for a long moment.
“I’m...glad to hear it?”

“Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but if I could be said to
have a type, I rather think you would be the complete opposite. And if you kiss
poor Mr. Cartwright the way you kissed me at Wakefield’s—” She was cut off both
by Warren’s hiss and frantic hand gesture as well as Ben’s sudden shout.

Ben leaned forward in his seat to glare across at Warren.
“You kissed her?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Warren said immediately. “It
wasn’t because I wanted to. And like she said, it wasn’t even that good of a
kiss.”

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth agreed, actually seeming to regret
letting the detail slip. “Awful. I would be hard pressed to do it again. Warren
is—he’s too short to kiss properly.”

“Thank you, dear,” Warren ground out, keeping his eyes on
Ben. “Please. Don’t be this way. You knew I would have to pretend when we were
out. I made you a promise, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Ben agreed after a moment, though he snorted
softly in irritation. “I just...don’t want to hear about it, is all.”

The Travers passed through the room without bothering to
announce themselves, but they paused at the doorway into the front hall.

“Do you need us, Hayward?” Simon asked while Owen leaned
over to catch Elizabeth’s eye. “We’ll be back in the morning if not.”

“No, I suppose not,” Warren shrugged. He bit back a smile as
Owen blew a quick kiss at the stoic Miss Trentham, who only glared at him icily
in return. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Owen said with a mocking salute in
Ben’s direction. “Constable. On our best behavior, honest.”

“Shut your gob, Owen, or I’ll make your eyes match,” Ben
snapped. Owen held up a hand in surrender, then placed it on on Simon’s
shoulder to turn him, and they were out the front door without another word.

“How are you fine with them living here?” Ben asked
Elizabeth, gesturing at the empty doorway. “Especially with the way the one
leers at you. You know they’re both criminals.”

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr.
Cartwright,” Elizabeth said immediately, “but I thank you for your concern.
I’ve dealt with worse than him. Now, if we might return to the business at
hand? Or would you prefer to do a bit more grousing?”

“Grousing,” Ben grumbled, throwing his hands up in defeat
and folding his arms as he slumped into his chair.

“Now,” she continued without giving him another look, “the
venue has been booked…”

Late in the night, curled up against Ben’s warm torso,
Warren heard the harsh ring of the TXM sitting on the bedside table and lifted
his head blearily. Ben mumbled beside him and rolled over onto his stomach
while Warren reached over to pick up the small machine. The screen was
difficult to see in the darkness, so he put a hand on the lamp and switched it
onto the dimmest setting to avoid waking Ben. Squinting, he saw the number for
the Travers’ TXM, and the single line of the message—Present for you in the
cellar.

Warren swore under his breath and clicked off the lamp as he
kicked out from under the blankets, snatching his robe from the back of the door
and hurrying out of the room. They knew better than to bring someone on a night
that Ben was home. He opened the hidden door to the cellar and rushed down the
stairs, where he found the twins standing over a limp, hooded body.

“What is this?” he hissed. “Ben is right upstairs; what are
you thinking?”

“Got into a bit of a row,” Owen said, scratching idly at his
stubbled cheek. “This bird ‘ere got it in ‘er head we owed ‘er money for summat
or other. Never seen ‘er before tonight. Followed us down the Heolstran road
she did, blabberin’ on about this an’ that. Seemed like she would’ve followed
us right on home, so we made it an easier trip on ‘er.” He shrugged. “Know it’s
off-schedule, but we thought you might like ‘er.” Owen smiled at the blank look
Warren gave him. “We can make sure the constable doesn’t stumble ‘is way down
here.”

“You’re both fired,” Warren said with a small laugh, putting
a hand to his forehead as he looked down at the figure on the floor. “I’m
getting rid of your troubles for you now? Did you really not know her?”

“Hard to tell,” Simon said simply. “Shall we remove her?”

Warren paused. He had promised Lady Caldwell her automaton
within the week, and Cam had finished the dainty machinery that very afternoon.
She’d be delighted. “No,” he said finally. “I’ll take her.”

Simon gave him a small nod, and the twins made their way
upstairs, the secret door sliding into place behind them.

Nothing was prepared, so Warren gathered his materials. He
lit the candles and the incense, and he got on his hands and knees on the floor
to carefully draw the same circle he had now drawn more times than he could
remember. When he finished, he stood and dusted his hands of chalk as he turned
to face the unconscious woman. He could see a bit of her black hair peeking
from under the rough canvas hood as she lay still on his floor, dropped in an
uncomfortable-looking position with her ragged dress slipping off of one
shoulder.

He took the knife from its place on the worktable beside the
empty husk, and he moved to stand beside her, reaching down to drag her closer
to the circle by her arm. He paused as he felt a bit more resistance than he
was accustomed to. He thought he heard her take a gasping breath. He pulled her
to her knees, and she stayed. He could feel the gooseflesh of her arm under his
palm, and he jerked his hand away as a soft sob sounded from underneath the
hood.

“Please,” a soft voice whispered, choked by tears.

Warren hesitated. They had always been unconscious before,
at least since Mrs. Burnham and the old man. He had taken too long drawing the
circle.

“Please let me go,” the voice came again. “Whatever you
want, you can have it,” she whimpered, her fingernails scraping lightly on the
stone floor.

Warren didn’t answer. He never expected one of them to be
awake. After a moment of tense silence, the woman’s hands slowly lifted from
the floor, her fingers trembling as she reached up to the hood on her head.

“Are you still there?” she whispered, but Warren felt frozen
to the spot, a cold pit in his stomach. As the woman’s hood slipped free, she
gasped to see him standing beside her, dropping the hood onto the chalk of the
circle. She was young—couldn’t have been more than twenty—and pretty, with pale
skin and a light dusting of freckles on her nose and chest. She stared up at
Warren with wide green eyes, her chin trembling as tears streamed down her
face.

“Please, sir,” she said, “I don’t mean anyone no ‘arm.”

Warren almost called for the Travers, almost asked for Simon
to knock her out again so that he might do his part in peace. He couldn’t do it
with her staring him in the face. If nothing else, he risked her screaming and
waking up Ben if he laid a hand on her.

“Please,” she said one last time, and Warren furrowed his
brow at her, feeling a quiet cold calming his heart. She would wake up Ben. If
he let her go, she would tell the police where she’d been. She could identify
him and the Travers as well.

“No,” he said softly, and he reached out quickly to clasp
his hand over her mouth, muffling her terrified cry. She struggled against him,
and he almost lost his grip on her. She fought and scratched at his arms, but
he held fast, pushing her down over the circle and spilling the blood from her
throat in one smooth motion. He braced himself against the shockwave and turned
his head away from the light, briefly lifting his arm to shield his eyes. When
he opened them, he saw the Travers standing across the cellar, and he glanced
down at the girl’s withered body and dropped his knife to the floor as the golem
began to stir behind him.

“Heard a yell,” Owen said, “but I guess you had a handle on
it eh?”

“Assign that golem a number,” Warren said with an empty
coldness as he looked at Simon. The thought that they had seen him perform the
ritual barely crossed his mind. If he trusted them to bring him the bodies in
the first place, he could trust Simon with the practical knowledge. “And get
rid of the body.”

Warren brushed by them and up the stairs, slipping by Ben’s
sleeping form to wash his hands and face and pausing when he found a spot of
blood on his robe. He shrugged it off and peeked in on Ben, who still slumbered
soundly, and he stuffed the stained robe all the way to the back of the
armoire. He carefully climbed back into the bed, and Ben only mumbled and curled
up tightly around him.

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